To Serve a King (5 page)

Geneviève waited, hating herself for the expectancy she felt in her heart, for one word of fondness to mark this leave-taking. Her aunt closed her eyes and turned her head toward the windows. Chiding herself for her foolishness, Geneviève turned toward the door.

“You will tell him, won’t you?” The voice faltered and its vulnerability stopped her, drawing her back.

“Madame?”

“Tell Henry, make sure. Tell him I have done my duty well.”

That the parting words between them would be of King Henry came as no surprise to Geneviève.

“He will know,
ma tante
. As do I.”

On the seat across from her, Carine bubbled with excitement, leaning out of the open window to stare at the pale green meadows of spring as they rushed past.

“It is all like a dream, is it not, mam’selle? I cannot believe I am leaving. I have never left town in the whole of my life.”

Geneviève gave her a silent, indulgent look in reply, but her hands, clad in lambskin leather, clenched tighter on her lap. She wouldn’t tell her maid that she had never left this place, either, not in all of the years gone by. There had been many times she had longed to run, when she had learned what lay in her past, when she was told what was planned for her future. No, she couldn’t share her own excitement and fear. But to herself she admitted her misgivings. She feared the future—yes, it was true. And yet there was a need, like an insistent itch, to do what she must, to fulfill her destiny, regardless of its brutality.

3

May the height of these great mountains

Not affright or rebuff us.

—François Rabelais (c. 1494–1553)

T
he journey from Montlhéry to Saint-Germain-en-Laye, where the king currently stood in residence, spanned the course of four days as it skirted the grand city of Paris on its northward track. But one day of rain plagued them, a stroke of luck in early spring.

Try as she might, Carine had failed to coax conversation from her mistress and in the end surrendered to the silence, seeing to her embroidery when the road was smooth, dozing when it was not.

Five years separated her from her companion, and yet Geneviève looked upon Carine like a child. Perhaps the girl’s unfettered exuberance distinguished them, divided them so distinctly as youth and adult. Thankfully, the girl learned fast how best to serve her mistress. Relieved when Carine’s attempts at discourse had subsided, Geneviève’s head was far too full of words to trust her mouth to keep them imprisoned. So many times on the long journey it had pulled at her, the raging desire, the explosive need to quit the carriage and run back to her room, slamming and bolting the door behind her. Words of fear and failure sniped at her, chanting—as they had before—again and again in her mind.

I cannot do this. I won’t. I cannot do this. I won’t.

With a forceful clamp, she silenced them, allowing others to take their place. Insistent, prodding commands plagued her, the tenacious voice of her aunt telling her what she could, what she must do. She stifled the loquacious nagging as she always did. Under her breath, she recited the names of the royal family and those of the courtiers, a litany of lessons learned, until the monotonous repetition lulled her to sleep.

“Wake up, mademoiselle, wake up!”

Geneviève’s eyes snapped open; her hand flinched toward the dagger strapped to her ankle by the lacy garter. But she discovered no threat through her sleepy gaze and with descending clarity, recognized the interior of the carriage, felt its bumpy gait beneath her, and saw the bright-eyed face of her maid sitting across from her.

“Carine,
mon Dieu,
whatever is the matter?”

The excited girl bobbed up and down in her seat, a determined digit pointing out the window. “Look.”

Sitting up, Geneviève rubbed the sleep off her face with the back of one hand and peered out the open window. Bright afternoon sunlight assailed her, sparkling off the vast river running parallel to the tree-lined road, and she squinted against the glare, nostrils quivering at the robust scent of fresh water rising up to greet her. Craning her neck, she looked to the front of the vehicle and the panorama stretching out before them, any remaining lethargy chased decisively away.

The château rose up grandly on the rise ahead. Beyond the imposing ironwork gate, the exterior details of the yellow brick palace came into view. Exemplifying the medieval style in which it was built, square with towers at each corner, this fortress palace now bore the distinctive mark of its current monarch. In close collaboration, François and the architect Pierre Chambiges had added two stories upon the foundation laid by King Charles, augmenting it with distinctive touches, transforming it into the current age. With the addition of a terraced roof constructed of large stone
monoliths conjugated by buttresses of long, iron tie bars, there became a delicacy to the edifice, as if the mighty castle now bore an intricately crafted and bejeweled crown upon its head. Here the king had married his first wife, and here his second son, now the Dauphin, had been born.

“You are excited now, mademoiselle, are you not?” Carine twittered, her face close to Geneviève’s, their heads framed together in the open carriage window. The delight had skimmed across her mistress’s restrained features like the wind across a calm pond, and she had seen the ripples. The young maid smiled with satisfaction; she began to recognize the small changes, the tiny glimpses that revealed the woman’s true emotions. It was as if she had discovered some secret treasure and vowed to keep its knowledge all to herself.

Geneviève straightened and the curtain fell once more across her face. “It is an imposing structure, worthy of the king.”

Carine sat back as well, but not without a smirk, one Geneviève refused to acknowledge.

As the carriage rumbled to the gate, the driver handed Gen-eviève’s papers to the renowned Swiss Guards who stood at the aperture every hour of every day. Carine blushed at the handsome men in their white and gold tabards. Within seconds, they opened the iron bars and the carriage rumbled through, turning right onto the main approach. Before the crunch of wheel upon gravel ceased,
valets de chambre
flocked around them, extracting the trunks, reaching in to help the ladies disembark.

“Welcome to Saint Germain, mademoiselles.” Dressed in blue and gold livery, a tall fellow, well but not resplendently dressed, bowed to Geneviève. “How may I be of service?”

“I am Geneviève Gravois, niece to the Baroness de Montlhéry, who sends her best regards to the king. I am here for my post as lady to the duchesse d’Étampes.”

“Of course, mademoiselle. This way,
s’il vous plait.
” The man bowed, one arm crossing his waist, the other directing Geneviève into the château.

On legs weak from long days of travel and more than a touch of apprehension, Geneviève moved toward the door.

“Mam’selle?” The timid squeak poked at her from behind.

Carine stared after her mistress and the man escorting her, eyes large and frightened like a captured church mouse.

“I—” Geneviève began.

“They will show you the way, young lady.” The valet jutted his chin toward the two squires who continued to off-load the luggage from the carriage. “They will bring you to your mistress’s rooms.”

Carine dipped a quick curtsy and Geneviève continued on, grateful for the man’s efficient response, as she had none of her own. Her life’s lessons had attempted to prepare her for its purpose, but now, in the moment of beginning, she realized how much she still needed to learn. There was little to prepare one for the life of the courtier. Most lived it from the moment of their birth, and its particulars came as naturally as learning how to walk. But Geneviève had lived a simple life for twenty-two years, almost twenty of them in nearly total seclusion; what she needed now most of all was the time she had lost. Courtiers had had their whole lives to learn what she must in a matter of days.

The
maître d’hôtel
took his place a few steps ahead, leading her through the enormous front door, passing beneath the triple Roman gothic arches.

“Your own room is located on this floor along with the other ladies who serve the duchesse and the queen.”

Eleanor of Habsburg and her attendants lived side by side with the king’s
maitresse en titre
and her attendants; it was the way of life for French nobility. Indeed, strict rules of precedence dictated the entire structure of the king’s household. Prince and princesses of the blood and their families inhabited the château proper, as did most cardinals. Depending on their closeness to the king, the royal family’s attendants resided on either the ground or the first floor. The king, the queen, and the king’s mistress inhabited the entire second floor, as did Anne de Montmorency, François’s constable and grand master of France. No one but the king’s children,
les enfants du roi
, were allowed to live on the third floor, above the king. Members of the royal staff—secretaries and the like—were housed in outbuildings along with unmarried noblemen of lower standing. Anyone whose title began with
premier
took precedence over persons of higher social standing, their close proximity deemed necessary to the service of the king.

The pompous servant brought her through the marble foyer and across to one of the many spiral staircases, one of the distinctive architectural touches in the palace. Idiosyncratic in construction, with intricate carvings and ornamentations, the staircases provided the sole means of movement and access through the château, as all the
appartements
were constructed independent of one another. Few corridors existed, and those that did spanned no more than a small portion of each wing.

“The king is in residence, is he not?” she asked as they reached the third floor and entered a short hallway.

Geneviève had followed her guide, taken with the breadth of the château and its relative quiet. They had encountered no more than a smattering of people along the way, men dressed som-berly—of serious mien, intent on reaching their destination—and a modicum of servants. There was little evidence of the thousands of courtiers who made their home with the king and with whom she would make her life.

“
Oui,
mademoiselle,” her guide replied. “The weather is very fine today. Most are at the hunt, while others take the opportunity for an afternoon’s rest.”

Geneviève grimaced. She had studied the ways of the king for years and knew he preferred to dedicate his afternoons to some sort of physical activity. In springtime the forests of Saint Germain were bountiful; the court would take every opportunity to avail itself of the abundance.

“Is the duchesse with him?” she asked.

“Of course, mademoiselle. She is always with the king.”

Geneviève thought she detected a tinge of emotion in the
man’s reply but could not fathom it, nor elicit any explanation. For the moment, her primary goal was to secure her place in the hierarchy that was life with the king. There would be plenty of time for more in the coming days.

At the first door along the short passageway, the man stopped before the posted guard, who tipped his head in obeisance and opened the entryway. Geneviève stepped into a warm and inviting salon
,
welcomed by the delicate and tasteful opulence. The sun shone brightly through light and airy silk curtains of primrose and pine that matched the embroidery-covered walls and the upholstery of the scroll-worked furniture. Satin pillows tossed about haphazardly gave contrast to the rich tapestries and exquisite paintings adorning the walls. The room spoke of taste and refinement, and yet of a playful femininity.

“May I have something sent to you while you wait? Any refreshment?” Poised at the door, the valet stood with one foot stepping into the corridor.

Geneviève hesitated to respond, as if to keep him from leaving her alone. “No,
merci
. I will be … I am fine.”

“Very well,” he said, and with a bow was gone, the door swinging closed behind him.

Geneviève stood in the center of the room, not knowing what to do with herself, at odds with her unfamiliar surroundings. Growing bold, she looked around, peering through the door into the duchesse’s private chamber. The same blissful beauty reigned here, dominated by the enormous bed sitting upon a dais. Piles of pillows sat atop the finest fluffy coverings. It was a bed fit for a king.

Returning to the spacious sitting room, Geneviève perched herself on the end of a winged armchair and waited. Streams of sunlight chased sprightly dust motes across the room as she festered in the silence, solitude that gave birth to mixed emotions of dread and anticipation.

The laughter reached her first, a merry herald, the door bursting open before she lurched to her feet.

The women streamed in amidst their chatter and laughter, like a rush of air bursting through an unlatched window. Cheeks rosy, hair windblown, they wore the effects of an afternoon outdoors as elegantly as they wore their red hunting costumes.

In the center of the whirlpool, Anne de Pisseleu d’Heilly walked with the conviction of her position. Though she wore the same attire as her ladies, the air of distinction was her accessory alone. Doffing her riding gloves and dapper chapeau, she brushed past Geneviève, as though the sight of a stranger in her sanctum was no cause for surprise. Accoutrements cast aside, Anne smoothed her shining chestnut hair, turning her gaze decisively upon her visitor.

Geneviève felt the penetration of the emerald green eyes. In their depths, she glimpsed intelligence and cunning balanced with a tincture of kindness and welcome. She dropped into a deep curtsy, fanning out her skirts in the greatest of respectful gestures.